


Fortnight

by Nickib44



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Captives, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Major Loss, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4208451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nickib44/pseuds/Nickib44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all started with a break. Sherlock is an exhausting man, and John needed a break. Simple. That night changed everything, though. It wasn't just a nightmare in itself, but the beginning of a fortnight of their nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! My name in Nicole. You can call me Nicoco though, 'cause we're cool like that. 
> 
> This is not my first fic, but the other is a Les Mis one from 8th grade, which I am in the process of posting as well, btw. Don't check it out though, it's a disgrace. I just thought it would be slightly entertaining. :)
> 
> This is my first serious fic that I am putting a lot of time and thought into though, so if PLEASE leave feedback, as it would really mean the world to me and hopefully help me when writing in the future. I am just writing the chapters as I go with not much planning, and I do not know exactly how often I'll be posting. I hope it will be often, as it is the summer and I am home literally EVERY. DAY. This will give me something to do.
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy and leave feedback! Thanks!

I just needed a break. That’s all. A little break. Was that too much for the universe to handle? Did time itself deny my request for two or three hours of peace? Sure, my idea of “peace” isn’t widely accepted, I’m sure, as it usually is just being anywhere Sherlock Holmes ISN’T. These places include, but are not limited to, bed, the hospital, an elementary school play, Venus, hell, etc. Ok, alright, maybe I am exaggerating now. But I’m not kidding about how difficult it can be to toil with this man on our cases every day. In fact, working with Sherlock is one of the most taxing jobs I’ve ever managed in my life. Shocking, right? I mean he’s, what, only a genius with no patience, little empathy, a frankly alarming control of the police force, and an ego larger than the bloody royal family’s. He should be a national hero.

I’m sorry, all joking aside now, as I must start getting to the meat of things if I want to get through my entire predicament. I will tell you about Mister Sherlock Holmes as calmly as I can manage. The man is truly fascinating. The way he is able to note the most miniscule bits of our appearances in ways of body language or simply clothing and piece together an accurate assessment of our mental state, as well as events that happened to us or others is humbling. His gift is unparalleled… mostly. This can be troubling, as with the particularly trying case of Jim Moriarty. That all worked itself out, I suppose, but only after our little hero jumped off the roof of a hospital that was a little too high for that sort of activity, terrifying me and everyone who had a shred of worry for his well-being. He is fine, of course. He is Sherlock Holmes. But he doesn’t make it easy to be fond of him. He never even told me how he did it. How he was able to walk away in fit enough condition to disappear for two years to take care of a “private matter of grave importance”. I swear he has never sounded more like Mycroft in his life. Important thing is he is back and healthy.

Oi, I almost forgot to mention myself in all this exposition! Sherlock would be quite tickled, I’m sure. I am, of course, Dr. John Watson, for those who haven’t already guessed. I was trained as an army doctor at St. Bart’s hospital (the same one Sherlock dove off of) and became a Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers serving over in Afghanistan before being shot in the shoulder. I returned to England, was diagnosed with PTSD, and all those pleasantries. I was in a very dark place. I had no one, except maybe my therapist, which is even more upsetting. Then one day, my life changed. The John Watson that had been repressed and was hiding in the corners of my mind burst forward as I was resurrected from my gloom. I met Sherlock Holmes.

The role Sherlock has played in my life cannot be overstated. He is the only one who could bring out the real me, the me with all my true personality and all my true potential. He made me feel so valuable at a time when I could feel nothing but worthlessness. So yes, Sherlock is an insensitive, conceited, controlling, sociopathic git, but that is how he should be. That’s how he needs to be. I need him to be himself, and luckily, that is not a tall order.

To get back on track, Sherlock and I became flat mates at 221B Baker Street and started solving cases together. It was a little awkward for me at first, as the work we do with the police is not technically legal, or at least proper police procedure. That doesn’t matter as much to me anymore, obviously. Through this work, I have become better and better over time at making deductions as he does, but I don’t kid myself. I’ll never be anywhere near his caliber of talent, but that’s ok. I’m fine with just being the human portion of our operation. After the incident at the hospital, I relapsed back into my PTSD worthlessness phase. It was like a part of my soul had been ripped out and I just… hurt. I moved out of our flat that we had shared in our short time together and started working at Bart’s to pay the bills. Those two years were pretty much a blur of pain, sickness, and death. It kept me satisfied, however, which is morbid, I know. It allowed me to not dwell on my own loss as I was too busy handling the losses of others, I guess. When Sherlock returned, I was EXTREMELY angry, to say the least. But the pain ebbed away, and I felt complete again. I moved back to Baker Street and we returned to our work with Detective Inspector Lestrade concerning cases that the police just couldn’t crack, just like the old days. All was as it should be.

I remembered all of this and reflected on all the events and choices during this time especially as I lay on the chilling concrete floor. Perhaps I spent the most time, however, reflecting on that night that I took my little break. I guess it is then fitting that we start there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter is a lot longer than the first, I think! Well, anyway I hope y'all enjoy and please leave feedback! Thanks! :)

It was a Friday. It was December, so naturally it was absolutely frigid outside. I navigated the bustling streets of London, constantly adjusting my jacket I had hastily grabbed on my way out of our flat in an effort to keep warm, muttering under my breath about Sherlock, no doubt. He had really pissed me off that particular day, or technically night, I suppose. The case was indeed an exceptionally stressful one, as it involved… well, let’s just say a few of the more significant members of the English government. A document had gone missing and there were a string of murders surrounding the ordeal. There were spies and conspiracies and it was all very distressing, to say the least. Mycroft was in SUCH a mood.

In hindsight, I have no clue what possessed me to allow Sherlock to take this case. That was usually my job, after all. If it was just up to Sherlock, he would take every single case presented to him. He is a rather excitable person. It is up to me to think things through a bit more thoroughly. Police investigations tend to be almost always safe, or as “safe” as the usual erratic serial killers can be. I can definitively say, however, we usually came out of those cases in one piece with little to no emotional trauma, Moriarty being the exception. Being hired as private investigators is, however, a bit more risky, especially considering the fact that we usually attract a rather colorful clientele. Even worse, clients don’t always offer much information about themselves for reasons ranging from embarrassment to discretion. Sherlock pretends to be put off by this, but it obviously only encourages him more. The man is completely out of his mind. I am not totally crazy yet, though, so I take it upon myself to do my own digging and see if these cases present any obvious dangers. 

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “John, if you are so concerned about having some sort of clue about what is going on before going into a case, why on God’s green earth would you then let Sherlock take a case involving higher-ups in the government? You know, one of the most ironically secretive organizations in Britain?” Well it was a combination of factors, ye of little faith. First of all, I figured (stupidly) that our connection to Mycroft would keep us somewhat safe. He is, after all, one of those more significant members of the British government. He almost IS the government, for God’s sake. I also assumed that the government is probably above hit-men and things of that nature if we started to learn too much. Key word: ASSUMED.

I guess now that I think about it though, none of those assumptions were actually the causes of our problems. It was more a matter of the criminals involved in the case. I mean, you kind of assume they are going to be dangerous, you know? After solving so many cases with the offender making simple mistakes or being just laughable though, you start to underestimate how cunning some criminals are. This was one of those times. I mean, they were technically enemies of the government, after all. That definitely should have been a red flag. I guess I was too busy checking into how safe the government is rather than how safe people the government is scared of could be. This will make me reevaluate my methods in the future, hopefully.

Anyway, we were on our second night of work and Sherlock was being difficult. I mean REALLY difficult. More than usual. He was acting odd every time I tried to offer my own theories to help him along with his own. Again, he can be like that normally, but that night he was almost ignoring my ideas. Usually he at least tells me why he thinks they are wrong or gets extremely eager when they aid him. I gave up after a while and sat on our couch, reclining and scanning some of the files given to us to work with. Sherlock was deep in thought, hunched over in his chair, muttering something unintelligible. I have a feeling even if he spoke louder, I wouldn’t be able to understand what he was saying. Suddenly he darted out of his chair and started rummaging through some more of the files on the coffee table.

“John, find the ones with the numbers 30-38 in the top right corners,” Sherlock fired out.  
“Ok, now we are communicating again. Great. Good to know.” I hoped he noted the sarcasm in my voice.  
He just sort of ignored it. Big surprise there. “It could be on the stool over by the table. Come on, chop chop, this is a matter of national importance, John.”  
I stood up, emitting a slight groan as I did. “Oh, sorry,” Sherlock added, noting THAT, of all things, “did I interrupt you? I could have sworn you weren’t doing much of anything.”  
I began combing through papers on the stool he mentioned. “You really didn’t seem like you needed me to do much of anything.”  
“What are you talking about, of course I need your help with this. I can’t do everything by myself, as you frequently remind me.”  
“And I’ve been trying to help all day, Sherlock. I’ve read through these files three times at least, and you haven’t exactly been receptive to any of my ideas.” Sherlock was silent, but not out of guilt. He had moved to the files on our table and had gotten more frantic. “Calm down, jeez! Why exactly do you need these pages?”  
“You can’t find them can you?”  
“Not yet, but…”  
“Great. That helps a bit.”  
I was silent. He wasn’t being sarcastic with that last remark, he actually sounded genuinely pleased with this realization. “…why?” I asked.  
“These are all files from the government, right? Now why would they leave those out?”  
“…they don’t want us seeing something, I suppose.”  
“Yes, but what? What are they hiding from us?”  
“Well, they are the government, Sherlock. Probably lots of things.”  
Sherlock turned to me. He had that tenacious look in his eyes. “Those files, 30-38, are part of the stolen files.”  
I sighed, not even asking how he came to that conclusion “Ok, great. Now we need to figure out who could have stolen them, like we are supposed to have been doing.”  
“We need to find those papers, see what’s on them.”  
“Are you thinking that whoever stole them wanted to take them because they are concerned that the documents could be detrimental to them personally, or something?”  
“Maybe. I don’t know.”  
“Ok… why do you want them then?”  
“We need to know what’s on them, obviously. We know what the subject matter is surrounding the papers, as we were given the rest of the document, but why didn’t they want us to have these pages? Why don’t they want us seeing exactly what was stolen? Now of course the government has to have copies of the documents, it’s not a matter of them not having some kind of possession of them. Why aren’t we allowed to know what is on them?”  
“…is that what you have been doing for the past two days? Trying to figure out what's on those pages? Moping about how the government won’t let us see their secret plans?”  
“We need to see them, John. We need to know why the information is important.”  
“That is exactly why we can’t see the files. They are too important. That is the reason they want them back.”  
“Well, I WANT to see them.”  
“Well, that excuse isn’t going to work on the Prime Minister, Sherlock.”  
“Ok, you know what? If you don’t like how I’m handling this case, perhaps you should let me handle this on my own.”  
I was slightly stunned. He had never expressed thoughts before about me about leaving a case. “Well…” There was a long moment of silence. “Alright then.” I strode over to the door and shoved on my coat.  
Sherlock was still watching me.“Will you be back? Or am I alone on this?”  
“We’ll just have to see, won’t we? You can't always know everything, alright Sherlock?”  
I turned, rushed down the stairs, and strolled out onto Baker Street, slamming the door behind me. I imagined Mrs. Hudson checking on Sherlock and reprimanding him for angering me, once again. Thanks for trying, Mrs. Hudson, I thought as I called a cab, but the man is truly a lost cause.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a long time...
> 
> So yeah, even though it's been almost a year now since I posted the first few chapters for this, I'M BACK!!! Hope some of you are still out there. I don't know how often I'll be posting honestly. I have a pretty packed summer. Even this one chapter took me like two days to write too so EHHHH. Idk, hopefully I'll pull through and do more with this because I actually don't hate this fanfiction as much as some of my other old ones (I'm looking at you Les Mis fanfic I wrote in 8th grade that I've mentioned a million times on this account).
> 
> Anyway thanks for reading and as always, please leave feedback and or comments as I would love to hear how you think this story is going so far!

It seems that story-wise, we now sit at me wandering through London again. It should come as no shocker that by this time I had cooled down considerably, as is normally tradition with these all too common altercations between Sherlock and me. Despite my initial fury at having been offered the suggestion to leave the case, after a bit of collected thinking I realized that the only reason that this idea had been voiced was probably because Sherlock was approaching what I like to call the “edge of his dimensions”. You see, the man, despite his quick and nearly faultless thinking can only focus on so much and process a certain amount of data and stimuli before his body needs to control his information intake. This means cutting out as much of the flow as possible to get his brain to stable processing level again. In this case, I was cut. I hypothesize that this is a natural psychological occurrence in him due to his brain’s unique processes. It can’t be helped. It is all very inhumane, thus perfectly fitting for a man such as Sherlock Holmes.

Anyway, I rationalized that my hypothesis had again been supported through that night’s events. Sherlock needed all the help he could get for this case, but he just didn’t have the ability to accept it when I was willing to give it. OK. Fine. I decided to go with that. At this time, I shifted over to the outer edge of the sidewalk I had been walking down and, stopping at the edge of an alleyway so as to fully separate myself from the hustle and bustle of the nightlife in London, took some deep breaths. As I did so, my eyes wandered around, taking in my surroundings. I noticed the bright lights of shops and eateries eagerly welcoming in their business for the night. I saw cars rolling down the street while hearing distant horns coming from all directions on different streets throughout city. Occasionally, one would even blare on my street as well. I watched the people pass in front of me mostly though. The constant flow of all new faces moving at varying speeds down the sidewalk to places shrouded in mystery struck me tonight. It was odd to watch everyone keeping calm and carrying on after knowing what I knew about the growing desperation our government was experiencing that very minute. The feeling was akin to my general experience returning to England after being in war actually. After learning so many secrets and seeing so many horrors, you start to feel separated from the rest of society as though by a thin pane of glass. Some may stand behind it and watch in fear and sadness, but I mostly just watch and try to fix things where I can. I think that’s what Sherlock does too. Maybe this is why we have grown so close. Maybe this was why I decided to head back to the flat that night.

I started to rouse myself from my daydreams noting that I felt a lot calmer. I guessed my breathing exercises had worked. I pulled my jacket tighter around me and started racking my brain for the best place to catch a taxi considering how busy this area was. My eyes now wandered down the alleyway I was standing at the mouth of. I was passively examining the grimy dumpster stationed a few paces away when I thought I caught a shred of movement in my peripheral vision. I turned my sights to a fire escape winding up the side of the small apartment building to my right. I searched for what could have made the movement and decided that I could definitely see the outline of something lying on the stairs a flight above me. A million different scenarios ran through my head, even a few which included Jim Moriarty. As quickly as I started to get anxious however, logic and reason also started to take hold of me. I rationalized that is was probably just a dog or cat that was just trying to get away from the chaotic bustle in the streets same as me, and focused on again slowing my already accelerated breathing. One can never be too careful in this line of work, you know.

To be on the safe side and to follow through on my plans, I decided getting off this street and back to our flat was my main goal for the moment. Shoving my icy hands in my coat pockets, I stepped back into the flow of pedestrians. I was about a half hour’s walking distance from 221B, so I decided to just take that trek as I figured by the time I hailed a cab, I could have already been near home anyway. And walking’s free, so definite additional plus.

About 20 minutes into my half hour walk, I found myself on a street that was deserted. Very foreboding, I know, I thought so too. I walked quicker. Now normally a situation like this wouldn’t worry me. I’m a veteran god dammit, I can take care of myself just fine against muggers or whatever the hell could get thrown at you on a street such as this. But this was not a normal night, you must remember. I was working on a government caper that involved murder, spies, and conspiracies at this time, right? In that context, you could see how being on street such as this at this time of night could be a bit more intimidating for me. Spies are known to be crafty after all and I wouldn’t trust many people, let alone a bloke like me, to be clever enough to outwit one. I would trust Sherlock, but he was not present at the moment (or so one could assume; sometimes he would follow me when I’d storm out, but he had better things to do that night I think).

I was now rapidly approaching the end of the block. I needed to take a left there and then walk for about another eight minutes to reach the flat. I walked faster. The sound of my shoes hitting the cement echoed off the buildings around me. It was truly dead, this place. Then I felt something trigger in me. I guess it was due to all the superstition and anxiety that had started feeling but all of a sudden I started booking it to the corner. It reminded me of when I was young sort of. I think everyone can relate to this actually (hell, I still kinda do it some nights). You know when you turn off the lights downstairs in a house and start sprinting up the stairs to get to your room because you just know that someone is right behind you? That was what was happening to me one that street. Only this time, someone else was there. I became aware of this fact as I rounded the corner and felt a shooting pain in my leg, causing me to fall. I roared out an expletive, then looked up to try to make out the face of who had brought the great John Watson down. Before I could discern any more than a vague shape of a man blocking some of the light from the streetlamp behind his head however, I felt something hard and rough collide with my left temple. Then there was nothing for me, just darkness.


End file.
